Stage Right: Marital Reconstruction
Stage Left: Medical Intervention
Stage Center: Immigration Application
The same January as my second surgery and subsequent fleeing back to my parent's house a second time, my mother had a doctor's appointment.
During the time her vitals were taken by the nurse, my mom spilled. I don't know if she was friendly with the nurse or merely talked out of anxiety. In any event, my mom spilled about her oldest daughter have endo. Of two surgeries and no idea what to do next.
She almost said nothing about it. But she did.
The nurse, in the friendly and chatty manner only a Southern nurse can talk, told my mom of a phenomenal doctor who had taken care of her and "fixed her right up." That he was the most wonderful man in the world. That I needed to call him, pronto.
His name? Dr. Miracle*.
My mom came home incredulous with the news. What were the odds of her nurse having this kind of information? She gave me his number and urged me to call.
I sat on the info for a couple of days. I didn't really have much hope. I'd been told I had an incurable condition. What was this guy going to do for me?
I called him, anyway.
They didn't want to see me until I was at least six weeks post-op, but booked me for an appointment for the moment I passed that marker. I was surprised how quickly they were able to see me. He was a specialist, wasn't he? Isn't there supposed to be a long waiting list?
It took an appointment or two for me to determine exactly what kind of specialist this Dr. Miracle was. Not just a specialist. The specialist. As in women fly in from around the world to see him.
Now, I was in his care.
Between my working in the States to sponsor my husband for his green card and getting my relationship back on track, I had my medical exams. Over the following months I was poked and prodded. I had consults. Blood as drawn, tests were run.
I had an abnormal PAP. Abnormal enough that I was recommended for a colposcopy. As if having a giant ViewMaster shoved up your vagina isn't uncomfortable enough, the biopsy that ensued because of my abnormal results was unspeakable.
There was talk of surgery. It was obvious I had endo, but Dr. Miracle would not know the extent of my condition nor the damage done by the Swedish surgeons until he was able to look for himself.
The sum of my consults were: The surgeons in Sweden may have done a fabulous job, or they may have completely ruined my chances at conceiving a child. There was no way to know. The surgery would not be scheduled until my husband was present in the US because once the operation was complete, I would have an incredibly narrow window of opportunity to get pregnant. If I were not ready to get pregnant? Not even a topic of discussion as the window of my fertility was closing faster than a subspace wormhole. It was literally, now or never.
The remainder of that year was filled with immigration logistics, medical appointments, and middle-of-the-night international phone calls. I purchased a condo for us to live in. My husband scheduled the shipping of all of our worldly goods to our new home. I flew to Sweden for our second wedding anniversary, and my husband had his interview at the American Embassy the next day.
This time, we knew better than to let all of this stress get to us. My surgical schedule was based on whether or not he cleared his interviews. Our nerves were shot, and we were scared as hell about the future. But we kept talking. We weren't going to make the same mistake again.
He cleared immigration. My husband entered the US just before New Year's Eve as a card carrying member, and my third surgery was scheduled for February.
*Not his real name, obviously. I don't much think he'd appreciate my language on this blog.
Thursday, September 18, 2008